


Taking Back the Crown

by zombiejosette



Category: Dark Shadows (1966), Dark Shadows - All Media Types
Genre: Cults, Demon Hunters, F/M, M/M, Multi, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiejosette/pseuds/zombiejosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Victoria Winters. My journey should have ended. My journey which sends me tumbling through time and drops me into the arms of the descendants of the Reverend Trask to enlist me to accomplish their one goal: kill Barnabas Collins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victoria

**Author's Note:**

> This is an exercise in "I don't know what I'm doing."

**I.**

**(Victoria)**

 

The first thing I notice is the wind being knocked out of me.

 

Strange; I always thought I'd feel the air ripping past my cheeks, or the mist and spray from the churning ocean below, but as I fall from Widows' Hill, the sensation of falling itself could not be farther from my mind. A curious floating feeling, an indescribable weightlessness, but I can't breathe.

 

I can't scream. I can't move. I can't grasp poetically at nothing as my descent continues, much slower than I expected, than I wondered, than I ever thought possible, and Jeb Hawkes' face stays in focus at the center there and I can't breathe and _there._ There it is. There's the dampness on the back of my neck and my hair twists its way around my throat and no, no, no, I can't breathe, no, please help, please help, please somebody, Peter, _please_ , I can't breathe, I'll tear the word from my mouth if I have to dig into my throat to do it, help, help, he -

 

The darkness does not threaten me.

 

The darkness does not, cannot harm me, not when I've walked through fire and felt the burn of the hangman's noose around my neck, not after I've screamed my throat raw watching the ones I love drop one by one. _The darkness does not threaten me_. It doesn't hold anything that I haven't faced already. Collinwood's doors opened things to me that I never expected, never dreamed of, never believed in until I walked up the drive to the house on the hill. Nobody can say that I haven't grown. Dug myself a place in the earth (in the dunes, in the cold mud left by the tide), sprouted, and bloomed. I've seen the Collins family wither and bloom within a single season. Watched them grow in reverse. Seen the roots retract until the prestige is nothing but a seed in a new country's soil. Maybe I understand them better than anyone.

 

I do not fear the darkness, but a sob burns blue in my throat anyway. _Nobody believes me._ Not until they're faced with no other options. Not until the rope marks on my neck are almost healed; even after I've disappeared and returned. I've been dreaming. Of course. I'm dreaming.

 

_Of course I'm dreaming._

 

I first notice it as my skirts continue to billow in the wind and my hair twists wildly around my face. It's when I first notice the rocks in the ocean stretching farther and farther away from me as I continue to fall, but Widows' Hill doesn't disappear in the distance. The darkness may be unable to threaten me, but it can consume me in ways that I never thought possible. The night. The shadows. I think I see the moon, bright and nearly full in the sky and it's there and it's gone and there is nothing but the night. Nothing but the shadows. Nothing but the darkness and the wind as it finally (Finally? This is familiar) tears at my skin and pricks at my eyes. As it throws me around like a doll, like a plaything, like a toy that the centuries have always made their own. This way and that. Up and down. Maybe I'm flying, but of course I'm dreaming.

 

I harness enough of the whipping wind to take it deep into my lungs (and it stings, like the first breath after nearly drowning) and I yell, “You can't hurt me if I'm dreaming! None of this is real!”

 

The wind takes that opportunity to strike me in the middle of my back and I feel my body seize, feel my shoulders and my legs drop as my spine tries to bend the wrong way. A punishment for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I never did understand the vice in lying, or how white lies erased someone's guilt. The truth is the truth; maybe there honestly is no “right time” to deliver it. And maybe the universe thinks otherwise. I've struggled against my situations enough to learn to take it gracefully. I can't say it's been a deterrent. But I am dreaming, aren't I? I have lost sight of reality, of the world, of the hill where the widows cried, of the ocean where the sailors died. For it to be there and then gone is -

 

I can't say it's impossible. I've learned quite a bit in that mansion with its spires and its creaking hinges. Impossibility, as I once knew it, does not exist.

 

It's a feeling I can't describe, the one that overwhelms me. I still tumble through nothingness, through empty space with no destination I can fathom, but my body straightens until I curl in on myself, until I'm able to pull my knees to my chest and lock my fingers with those of my other hand, until I can hold myself in one place. Whole. I am whole. And it's not peace that comes over me, there's no serenity that I feel, but in all my years, I have had myself. Me. I am my only thing. As the world crashes down on my shoulders or dissolves before my eyes and I become nothing inside of nothing, I have myself. I am here. I am whole. As my life ceases to exist the way I've known it, I'm still here. Spun around and dizzy, but I am here.

 

I have myself.

 

I am real.

 

I can't ground myself. There's nothing solid in the air around me to dig my heels into, so I grasp my knees as tightly as I can in any attempt to restrict myself. Shackle myself to something. Wrap myself in the wind and use it before it uses me, before it stifles me, before it slices my throat raw and tangles my hair, the strands damp and whipping around my cheeks, stinging, wet trails in their wake. Wrap the wind around my wrists and twist myself in it, let it make me warm, let me soften it, let me, let me, let me.

 

“Let me live,” I hear a voice say. It's soft and hoarse and hardly a whisper at all, but it echoes through the darkness all the same. I try to answer, but the wind rings in my ears, the air buffeting against my head so much that the noise is a roar, hot against my ears.

 

I reach out. I try my hardest but the air I'd wanted to use to my advantage is now against me and my arm won't bend at the elbow. I'm trapped, unmoving in the fetal position, my hair around my throat and my mouth covered one minute and open the next and I gather whatever energy I have and I scream. I shriek. I cry loud enough to silence any banshee which may haunt Collinwood now or in the hereafter.

 

It's muffled. It's dowsed and muffled but I hear it, I hear it all the same and I feel it pouring from my throat and something is hot against my nose and wet against my face. My hair. My hair, around my neck, my skin, my, my, my - 

 

I reach to tear it away, to unwind it, to breathe again but I can't, I can't move, the wind still holds me back, but while I still have my voice I let, “Let me go!” dash from my mouth in some vain attempt to free myself.

 

Something cool against my arm. Something soft. It winds itself into my restrictions and pulls my arm free and my first move is to turn around, to pull the rest of myself out of whatever it is that's got me. I struggle back and I knock my head against something hard before I've even turned around, and of course I'm falling again, but it ends quicker than it started and it registers that I've hit something soft.

 

Fabric. I feel the stitches. The fibers rub against my weathered cheeks.

 

A sharp, feminine voice says, “Eli.”

 

Finally, finally, finally, I open my eyes. 

 

The room is small. Smaller than mine at Collinwood, made up modestly but comfortably, antique furniture luxurious and out of place with the threadbare makings of the place. Candles adorn every available surface, some freshly lit, some in danger of setting the wood on fire with how low they burn. I lie on a bed, the focus of the room, the sheets a mess in a pile, my ankles still buried in them. The fabric twines around my ankles, and the rest of me lies sideways on the pillows.

 

“Where...” 

 

My voice is hoarse. Dazed. A woman sits on the edge of the mattress, tall and pale, dark eyes, a braid of auburn hair falling over her shoulder. She says, “Eli,” again, clipped this time, and reaches over to a man curled up next to the nightstand. His face is cast in shadow, but as the light flickers, I see his angular features to match hers, his sleeves rolled up as he rests his head on his arms, dark hair falling into his eyes. The woman's hand touches his arm and he sits up so, so quickly, like a bolt through his skin, and I hear the creak of his joints as he shuffles out from the corner.

 

“What is it?” His voice is thick. Sleepy. He rolls his wrists and moves his hair from his eyes. This is Eli, and I study him as opposed to the woman. When my eyes do move back to her, she's staring at me.

 

“Look,” is all she says, voice lowered to a whisper, and my throat closes when her eyes meet mine. I move in bed, ignoring the whine of the springs in the mattress as I attempt to bring my knees close to me again. Eli stands where he is, but I feel his gaze on me as well, and I have so many questions but the one that pushes itself to the forefront is simple:

 

“Who are you?”

 

What, when, where, why, and how. Five more questions, and I don't know how soon I'll be able to ask them. Not when Eli and this woman were so quick to spring into action. The words fill my throat as bubbles but I bite my tongue and hope they pop themselves; I breathe in the clean air to keep them down.

 

“We're honored,” the woman says, and the emphasis and passion in the word are heavy and thick and the weight of it sits on my shoulders, but somehow, it feels warm. My legs are still bound in the blankets, but I have less of a desire to pry myself free and run.

 

But it doesn't answer my question.

 

“My name is Victoria Winters,” I say, and it's hasty. My throat catches on the vowels and it stings and burns; maybe talking quickly will allow it some relief, but I have to explain myself. I have to coax them. “Who are you?”

 

“You're -” The woman cuts herself off and I see the flames flicker off of her dark eyes as they well up with tears, and she turns to Eli next to her and she breathes, “She's the angel.”

 

Eli pauses, says nothing, sees how the woman's shoulders shake and reaches out to still her as he lowers himself to one knee. His hand moves through his thick, dark hair again, and I notice the way his eyes match hers, the way they catch the light.

 

“My lady,” he starts out, but his brows draw together and he says more cautiously, “Miss Winters. I promise, you're in safe keeping. My name is Eli Trask,” and he reaches out toward the woman, “and this is my sister, Tabitha.”

 

But before Eli can continue his sentence, I am tearing through the fabric to disentangle my ankles, to throw myself from the bed, but my knees are weak and they give way under me, and my throat stings as my cry slices through it. Tabitha and Eli are at my side before I hit the thick carpet that awaits me on the floor, and Tabitha's icy hands grip my shoulders tightly as the siblings guide me back to bed.

 

“Let go of me!” I insist. I squirm against Tabitha's hold and my legs kick and the side of my foot grazes Eli's leg. I feel the fabric of his pants against my skin before he merely side-steps out of my reach. “You can't – I said! Let go of me!”

 

“Eli, the tea,” is all Tabitha says, all warmth dissolved from her voice. She's the clink of ice at the bottom of an empty glass. Eli listens to her, for what it's worth, and somehow with her thin frame (tall and broad shoulders and her hair is pulled tight against her scalp and with her dark robe I can see him, I can see nothing but him, I see the preacher in the forest and I feel the ropes around me again as she wrestles me down) forces me into bed, pulls the sheets up over my shoulders, and tucks me in tighter than the grave.

 

“You must _rest_ ,” she says. I hear the Reverend's voice out of her mouth. But over that, I hear the clink of a spoon against glass and Eli comes into my view again, ducking to fit through the door frame. He comes with a teacup between his palms, blowing steam away from the liquid inside. He shuts the door behind him.

 

He smiles at me, a crooked twitch of his mouth, and says, “Even angels need their rest,” and I muster up what I can to spit on him, but my throat and mouth have gone too dry. The smile doesn't fade from his face as he comes to sit next to me, stacks the pillows on his lap, and places the teacup on the nightstand. He lifts me up by my shoulders, despite my wrenching, and maneuvers me to sit up against the pillows. He picks up the teacup again.

 

“I'm not -” I protest. I try to roll away from him, toward the other edge, but it's too far and Tabitha has wrapped me too tightly in the thick, flannel sheets. I turn my eyes back on Eli and choke out, with all the venom I can manage, all the poison I couldn't muster to spit on him, “You're fanatics. Both of you.”

 

Eli's smile does not falter. He lifts the teacup toward me and ignores the way I twist my neck. His other hand grasps my jaw and forces my mouth open just so, just enough to pour the tea inside.  _Spit it out, spit it out,_ I think, but Eli is quicker. He tilts my head back until the tea has no place to go but down my throat. 

 

It soothes my throat.

 

I let it.

 

He jerks my head up, repeats the motions over and over until there's no more tea left in the cup, and the heaviness sinks down on me midway through. My breathing slows. My heart beats loud in my chest. The darkness cannot threaten me, but the mattress can with the way it tries to fold around me and swallow me down.

 

I clench my fists.  _I am here. I have myself. I am whole._

 

Something icy rests against my forehead and it takes me all too long to register it as Tabitha's hands, brushing my hair away from my face. I don't fight her. She whispers, “Rest now, Angel,” and I do not argue. 

 

The room and its warm glow begin to fade, blur together, and the glow of the flames behind Tabitha blend together to form a halo.

 

She says, “You have to save us,” and I am gone.

 


	2. ii. eli.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eli attempts to earn Victoria's favor.

**II  
(Eli.)**

“He didn’t tell us anything about this.”

My dear sister wrings her hands, skin like old paper around the thin bones of her fingers, skin flaking at the nails. I catch flashes of red, lines bright and thin and quick but still there, even in the light of the fire. It casts shadows on her face. I see her bones. I see her, gaunt and pale. She paces in front of it, lets her eyes wander, lets them drift to the Angel’s room over and over and over.

She’d wanted to stay. To stay with the Angel, Tabitha’s shaking, cold hands and those wide, glazed eyes taking in the divine as she rested her head.

“How do we know he won’t take her away?” she’d asked, breathless, to nobody in particular. To him, perhaps, but he wasn’t there and he still isn’t here and I took her by the shoulders, blew out the candles one by one, and guided her out of the room.

The door is shut, locked. The Angel sleeps, safe.

“Did he, Eli?” Tabitha says. She mumbles. She mumbles nonstop, over the crackling of the fire. I’d felt the first notes of relief settle into my spine, but the pacing and the mumbling and the wringing and God, the _pacing_ – surely they’re working together to dissolve it. “Did he say anything about this?”

“Tab,” I say, and it emits as a strange half-growl. I allow myself to slouch low in the chair, my eyes closed with blazing, blazing orange behind my eyelids. I tilt my head upward to speak clearly. “Tab, she’s here. He hasn’t lied to us.”

“Yes, but –“ she starts to argue and I sigh, fidgeting in the threadbare recliner I’ve thrown myself into. I turn, I open my eyes, and I see her. I take her in.

“But?”

“But he –“ The strap of Tabitha’s nightgown falls from her shoulder, letting shades or orange and yellow paint her skin. Light at the shoulder, a touch of gold, the colors growing bolder as they drift down her collarbone, reds and browns, autumn on her body.

She yanks it back up again, shuts the door to the falling leaves, and says, “He said she’d help us.”

I stretch, letting my body go rigid in the chair as I respond, “Who says she won’t?”

The pacing stops, and I say a small prayer for doubting miracles.

Tab says nothing for a moment, merely makes a wide gesture toward the Angel’s room, and the wind from her hand causes the flames to flicker, to cower, as though any sudden movement from Tabitha could mean their end.

Most movements from Tabitha are sudden. She moves in bursts, the tension in her shoulders counting down the seconds until she wills herself a quick jerk of her hands, frantic darting of her eyes, a discreet tuck of her hair. Calculation has never been a strong suit of hers, even in something so mundane as tying her shoes.

“You saw her,” Tab replies, and I force my lips from curling at the corners into a smile as she stands still and I hear nothing, nothing but the pop of the fire and the ticking of the clock and the chirp of the crickets outside the cabin. The relief has crept up my back for a place to burrow, and has settled heavy on my shoulders. It’s late.

Tabitha crosses her arms and continues, “She wants nothing to do with us.”

She says it low, low and icy and glaring into the fire, and I wonder if her breath is steam obscured by the smoke and soot.

I watch her. I watch her foot poke out from beneath her nightgown, I watch her trace a square on the wood floor with her toe. I watch the gears turn in her mind as she tries to stall, tries to keep herself still, tries to force the tension from her pores as she hugs herself tighter. I rise from my chair as the seconds pass, as the clock ticks them down in time with a heartbeat. I reach out my hands and pry my sister’s from her own grasp, taking hold of them.

“My dear sister,” I say. “Will you ever be at peace?”

She says nothing. Her eyes avoid mine and stare at the floor, at its ridges and lines, and her lips purse, drawing her cheeks inward. But her hands, her hands grasp my fingers, holding us together like the lifelines we are.

“You know how close we are.” When she speaks, it’s soft. Even so close, her words are difficult to hear over the chorus of the night. “Eli, I’m frightened.”

“Because you’ve made this into your life.” Tabitha looks away from me, further away, her head over her shoulder and her eyes fixed on nothing in the distance. Gingerly, I drop one of her hands and place my fingers under her chin, turning her head to face me. “Tab, there’s more. You’ve given more than enough attention to this.”

She’s quiet. Too quiet, her eyes dark and unfocused until they close, and still she doesn’t respond.

I tell her, “Father would be proud,” and Tab’s eyelids open, her lashes fluttering, and the fire catches a light in her eyes and I wonder if it will brighten the room, wake the Angel. A small miracle in itself.

“Father, we will endure as You will deliver,” I hear her whisper.

I follow with a lowered head and an, “Amen.”

Tabitha squeezes my hands, and as the flames flicker upon her small smile, I allow myself a wider one as we separate. The clock ticks from the back of the family room, but I cannot match it to any tension in Tabitha’s bones, her movements no longer jerk in a harsh rhythm. Prayer has always sedated the Trask family’s demons, has always eased our minds.

Tabitha stands, her arms hanging low, staring into the fire, so close that the waves from the heat billow the loose strands of her hair. A moment of peace for her to indulge in, so rare and wonderful that I wonder if I might frame her there, if she might sink into the floor, anchored there as a statue enraptured by the silence she so often refuses to partake in.

“You should get some sleep,” I tell her, taking another seat in my chair. She looks at me, smiles shyly. I say, “Things will be easier tomorrow.”

And she nods, sighs, and turns away. A moment later, I hear the click of her bedroom door, and I bite back a yawn myself. It makes my eyes water, turns the flames into warm-colored dots behind the tears.

But the silence is something to revel in, I’ve always found. Stimulation keeps the mind busy, and a busy mind rarely allows one time to process, to gather information, to discover facts. And without facts, without peace, one cannot make sound decisions.

The quiet is kind, the quiet is persuasive, the quiet holds the answer to the question that plagues you. You simply have to will yourself to listen.

Things will be easier, I had said, but despite my confidence, I wonder whether I had sought mainly to placate my sister, or whether I truly believe that the Angel will be swayed by something as easy and natural as sleep. In the stories I recall, in the verses I’ve read, they descend, gilded with heavenly light. They know their callings. They pursue them. My mouth goes dry at the thought of the Angel looking on us in disgust and horror.

Perhaps we are too selfish.

My tongue feels warm, warm and swollen in my mouth as I lean in closer toward the fire, staring intently, letting the flames burn into my eyes the way Tabitha does. Does this calm her? I breathe in, seeing nothing but yellow, yellow and orange and white and the black of the world outside the flames. I breathe in, I smell the smoke. My throat burns.

I cough. I sputter, I rise from the chair.

My feet carry me down the hallway before my vision clears, before I see things that aren’t shades of red. The darkness closes in, all black, before my eyes adjust outside of the Angel’s room. I stand poised, hand at attention to knock on her door before I scold myself in reminder that she’s asleep, and she will remain as such. I turn the knob, ask the Father for his favor to ensure the door doesn’t creak, and I make a quiet entry.

I look upon her, and I am humbled.

She’s difficult to make out without the candles, but the moon outside is full and casts a gentle glow through the curtains; the Angel lies at just the right place on the bed to allow it to wash over her, to cast her in a silver-blue light more ethereal than the flames could ever hope to be. Her hair is spread, long and dark and damp, on the pillow behind her: a broken halo, and my throat is full of promises to mend it.

I am humbled. I am unworthy. My breath seizes from my lungs and my mind races and for once, for once I understand Tabitha and the way she moves, how she speaks, for once I wonder if the Lord has cursed me, if this is my plague.

I gaze upon the Angel. I feel it lift.

I am humbled. I am unworthy.

I am blessed.

Regret turns to embarrassment that floods my cheeks when I realize I’ve come empty handed, with nothing to spare, and I move toward the Angel’s bed in bounding strides before I take to my knees, my hands reaching toward her, my head resting on the mattress.

“My Angel,” I manage, but red flares behind my eyes and the heat rises to my face and _no, no_ , not my Angel.

Silently, I say a quick prayer and push it above.

“Angel,” I correct myself. She pays me no mind, sleeping silently, her chest rising and falling beneath the blankets. “Angel, please, have faith.”

The irony of the plea isn’t lost on me. It settles somewhere in my mind, a page dog-eared for later. A mortal asking an angel to have faith, when we are the ones commanded to have faith when hope is lost.

Hope is lost for her. It’s evident in the sharpness of her face, the shallowness of her breath, the fragmented halo behind her. Our Angel has fallen, and from a great height. She must be helped, must be taught.

She fears what she does not know.

Slowly, I let my head rise, let myself gaze upon the creature that’s fallen from the light of Heaven, and I raise a trembling hand to brush against her cheekbone.

There’s warmth in the coolness of her skin, an eerie calm in the way she does not stir.

I lean in, I whisper, “I will do what it takes to earn your favor,” and I stand.

I close her door quietly behind me.

I forget the peace of the night before when the frenzy of the next morning comes to devour us.

A door rattles, an airy gasp, a scream, and a window breaks. Tab and I are bursting from our rooms before I realize my blankets are no longer draped over me. Tabitha yells something, something that does not register, dashing toward the Angel’s room as I bound my way through the front door, leaving it swinging open behind me. The dewy grass is cold against my feet – and slick; I run across the lawn and my feet slip out from under me, sending me sprawling across the grass.

But I see her.

I see her, motionless under her bedroom window: The Angel, curled up around herself, blood on her hands, staining the white of her gown.

“Angel!” I call, and it’s all I need to regain my strength. I clamor my way to my feet as she looks up, her eyes wide, frantic, wild. The Angel tries to scurry away; I see the way her bones stretch her skin, I see the grit of her teeth and the way she breathes, and _she fears what she does not know._

“No!” The Angel cries, and she shuffles backward in an impossible run, a baby deer unused to her limbs, her hands held out as I approach, now in slow, measured paces.

“Angel,” I say, and my voice is calm, a contrast to the yells of “No, no, no,” that pollute the air.

She fears what she does not know. I extend my arms to match hers, and slowly, so slowly, I envelop her in my embrace. She squirms, she moves, but she’s weak and so, so tired. Her muscles go limp in my grasp even as she protests, and I hold her head to my shoulder, and I say, “Come with me to the lake.”

She says something, a shrill protest muffled by the fabric of my pajamas, as I glance upward to see Tab standing on the porch, naught but a shadow in her black nightgown, expression unreadable. The wind picks up strands of her dark hair and lets them dance across her face.

I nod toward her.

She turns, walks back into the house, closes the door behind her.

“Come with me to the lake,” I say again to the Angel. I let my hands move through her brown hair. Again, her response is muffled, and I add, “You’re safe. I’ll carry you.” And, true to my word, I lift her, feet dangling in the air, and nestle the Angel in my arms.

This time, she does not protest.

The lake in question is a small body of water, less than a mile from the secluded house in which Tabitha and I live. About a five-minute walk, it sits in a meadow just outside of the woods. The Angel, quiet the whole way, sits still when I place her at the edge of it.

“You’re safe,” I remind her. She only moves her head, a whip of her neck to glare at me with the all of the holy wrath she can muster.

“What are you going to do with me?” She is still hoarse, but she glances toward the water nervously.

I stifle a chuckle as I hold out my hands in defense. “Will you have faith?” I ask, and color flushes into her face. It’s a source of pride, for me, my ability to calm others. I say nothing, merely remain as an observer. I must remain humble.

I tell her, “I only want to talk to you,” and I offer her a soft smile. She remains wary, though breathing seems to come easier to her now. Her shoulders move rhythmically up and down as she studies my face. “I’d like to be friends.”

She shakes her head, dark tresses moving with her. “You’re – you’re – I don’t even know how I got here!” I listen as her voice raises as her sentence continues. Her shoulders shake. I reach out to still her, but she recoils from my touch.

“We were blessed,” is all I can muster, though she looks at me as though I’m speaking nonsense.

Perhaps I am.

I say, “We waited for you,” and for a long while, the Angel is quiet, any thoughts clouded by the sounds of the trickling water, the way it splashes into the grass, and the breeze as it dusts away the morning dew.

“You didn’t wait for me,” she finally answers. She turns, turns her whole body, wet grass staining the white of her gown, and says, “You don’t even know who I am.”

I reach forward, grasp her hand before she can argue.

There’s so much. So much to say, so much to explain, to prove, that I will it all to rush forth from my mind at once, to spare myself the exhaustion that the conversation will bring.

“My name is Eli,” I say. “What’s yours?”

Her eyes widen. I wonder if she peers into my soul.

“Victoria Winters,” she utters.

“A beautiful name.”

I hold her hand in mine, marveling at the feeling of her skin, in awe of it being so familiar and so strange at once. Surely she wasn’t made this way, surely she took form as she plummeted from the heavens. Surely.

I rub my thumb across her knuckles and feel the muscles in her hand relax, and I tell her, “Miss Winters, we are in grave danger, my sister and I. We need your help.”

A pause, and the angel named Victoria slips her hand from mine. “I – I don’t know how I can help you. Please, I can’t stay here…” she trails off, shaking her head, glancing around her frantically, and God, somehow I see Tab.

“You’re the only one who can,” I tell her, though it isn’t exactly true. I’ll confess the sin later, though the man said nothing about that when he came. “Please.” And I reach for her hand again. “Please, we’re so blessed to be in your presence.”

She takes to flattery, I notice. Flattery, and fresh air, and a kind face, and a warmth fills Victoria’s cheeks to rival the sun itself.

“I wish I understood,” she says, so earnest I may go deaf. “You seem very genuine, I just – I’m afraid I don’t know what makes me so special to your cause.”

I let go of her hand and chuckle, laying back onto the green grass. She tilts her head as her eyes follow me downward.

“Would you believe me if I told you that you were prophesized?” I ask. I watch her eyes go wide, green, green as the trees that litter the horizon ahead of us.

She shakes her head and says, “Prophesized? By who?” Her brows are furrowed and her forehead creased in the middle, and I bite my cheek to keep from chuckling again as I prop myself up on my elbows.

“A black-haired man in a green suit,” I tell her, my head tilted to match hers, and when I laugh it’s full and loud. “Victoria, do you believe a true prophet would reveal his identity as easily as that? I’m thankful only for the gift he gave to us.”

“The gift?”

“You.”

The shade of pink that colors her cheeks is lovely on her. “I see.”

She turns again to stare out toward the water. She isn’t subtle when a thought occurs to her, I find, and her spine goes rigid as an exclamation point when she asks me, “What year is it?”

“The year? It’s 2016,” I tell her, and I watch her face slowly fall, the mirth dripping down her cheeks and chin, rolling away into the lake below.

“Twenty six –“ she whispers. She’s breathless, and I sit up, my palm pressed against her back, feeling her heartbeat, feeling it slow as I move close to her. I don’t question her. The Trask family has learned, over the ages, that questions don’t progress you. Having the answers, however, does.

“It seems like you have nowhere else to go,” I tell her. It’s cryptic, I know, but it jumps from my mouth all the same. If Victoria hears me, she does not respond.

The breeze picks up, and I notice clouds rolling in over the trees. I straighten my posture, observe the wind, and Victoria leans over and grabs my hand with might I never would have thought the frail thing capable of.

“Eli. Eli, please,” she begs. “I’ll help you. I’ll do whatever it takes. But you have to promise me something.”

“Promise?” I ask. The agreement. It’s out of the blue, it’s unexpected, so much that it eclipses the joy and relief. I cover her hand with my other, though I must seem befuddled.

“Eli, you have to help me get back home,” she rasps.

And I grin.

A simple request in exchange for so much bloodshed. I’d be a fool to deny her.

I lift my hand to dust against her cheekbone, an echo of the night before, and I tell her, “Whatever it takes to earn you favor.”


End file.
